First Night | Version 1

Darkness.
In the wandering hallways
full of memories of a gray era,
all she sees is the old man’s face
in a rustic frame.

She smells the dust.
Feels his age; his fatigue.

She puts dark burgundy lipstick on.
Gets lost in the smoke of the shisha.
Closes her eyes to the mirror
and greets the horizon
of the candle lights.

She tastes the battle.
Mirror and candles.

Clawing through her hair,
getting back to the conversation,
she fights the migraine attacks
and dedicates a smile to
human nature.

They all exist;
in different moments.

– S
Montreal – February 17, 2012

A Tragedy | Version 1

Whence to commence?
From where the memory serves
or from an unborn chapter?

Still in a hazy state of mind,
she is shattered from the intoxication
of the final night.
Screams a big smile
at an unclaimed despair.

Drip, drip, drip.
Bursting into tears.
Jiving wraithlike
under the midnight blue.
By the sparkling lakes.
In wine-breath but with sober hopes.

Bleeding from seduction.
Where her little soul
got crushed by the
hands of destiny.
Escaping the dreams.
Nightmares of disconnection.

No colors, no words, not the world
could paint those sad, sad eyes.
The gaze of the fire
in red and black.
In pure denial.

The sweet taste of the nectar;
would she ever forget the pleasure?

See through her.
Wrapped in the shower curtain,
covered by the cold rain.
In nudity.

And then the end.

Something just died
in a tragedy
between
them.

– S
Toronto – February 11, 2012

In Between

In utter darkness,

around it all;

above all times,

the bluebirds are chanting the same old songs.

The dragging days;

the drunken dawns.

I witnessed the race of the alarm clock

with the secret nights;

then begged for nothing but the tricks of the light,

waiting for the red rose to reveal.

I sensed the truth of your lips.

Infinite.

Quiet.

A thousand sips of 1997,

not event the slightest glance,

will turn us back to last December.

S

The Chateau Harware

Happy first blog post of twelve twelve.

… So tonight we read this brilliant poem, The Chateau Harware, by John Ashbery in our workshop and I thought to share it with my lovely readers, to whom I’ve been unfaithful:

It was always November there. The farms
Were a kind of precinct; a certain control
Had been exercised. The little birds
Used to collect along the fence.
It was the great “as though,” the how the day went,
The excursions of the police
As I pursued my bodily functions, wanting
Neither fire nor water,
Vibrating to the distant pinch
And turning out the way I am, turning out to greet you.

Stay tuned for more (and even more).

S

Black Cherries

The green nude dancing through her eyes;

their faces are cold from the sea beneath them

and the black cherries within their veins.

Their smiles aglow smoothly, their hands taste sweet,

and their temptation remains a mystery

not to the red plantains,

but to you and me.

S

I Still Do

My eyes roll to my right,

and the red danger sign

flashes under the sun.

And on left, there is nothing

but a green floral pillow case

and four more stares.

On the back of my head

I still feel the pain of the

empty bottles and the

words that I never remember.

I smell detoxification.

In my very front, I am heading to

the lightness of my destiny.

In my ears,

“I still do”.

S

Lost Boys

Something inside them is

falling to pieces. Big smiles are failing like flakes;

they hide behind the blue bricks.

Storytellers reveal the toxic waste,

and Sylvia sings “the night dances”.

“A smile fell in the grass. Irretrievable!”,

she once said.

The world still moves in beats

without the lost boys and

last autumn moments.

Even ours.

S

Room

Far from the “closer” days,

way beyond the leaves,

pale clouds are chanting

loud with aggression.

She closed her eyes to

what’s called “yesterday”.

Black and white grapes,

a bar of music are all she desires.

She hated the light.

And rain?

Never.

S